


And the Hard Rain Fell

by WanderingSummerBreeze



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingSummerBreeze/pseuds/WanderingSummerBreeze
Summary: I'm not immune to the horrible things going on in the fandom. And this may be my final bow. One can never tell with these things.





	And the Hard Rain Fell

The hard rain fell.

I wrapped my coat tighter around my body, the sheets of rain pouring off my hood like a steady waterfall, masking my face.

Good. It hid the tears.

I didn’t want to be here. I’d have chosen anywhere in the world to be, rather than here. But sometimes, you don’t get to choose your moments. Sometimes, they choose you.

He would be home soon. I watched as headlights passed me by, one by one, none of them him. My eyes looked to the street-light above, hoping for some guidance; some light on whether I was doing the right thing. It didn’t even acknowledge me, but simply hung its head, unmoving, across the river below.

I watched as old winter leaves, floated along the streets, destined for the world below. An endless whirlpool of dizziness and cold. I knew its pain.

The water rushed forth, sending a small tidal wave to cover the sidewalk, soaking my shoes. I simply watched as the water parted round the leather, carrying along further down its path. I looked up to watch the car settle, but the engine still ran. Would he need a quick getaway?

I swallowed the tears down my throat as he exited the cab. Was there someone on the other side? Did I see blonde, or was it a figment of my imagination? My exhaustion. My eyes fought to adjust, like in some drunken stupor, a kaleidoscope of memories, fragmented throughout my brain.

He closed the car door gently, not moving far from its grasp, and just stood. I swallowed once more, too old for childish games, but in this moment, I could have been all of fourteen, my heart breaking for the first time.

He stole a glance to the sky as his red hair quickly lost its curl to the violence of the skies. Some strange wonderment in the back of my mind suddenly sent my mind whirling in a pool of curiosity. Why did he not put his hood on? It just lay there, cradling his shoulders, but he made no move to shield himself.

Instinctively, my hand reached out, a desire to cover and protect him, always close at hand; always the most natural of thoughts. But I didn’t walk forward; my arm just hung in the rain like some forbidden touch.

I slowly dropped it, as he closed the distance separating us. I could see his tears through the rain. They fell...differently, down his face. I suspected they did the same for me. He tilted his head to the side, and with barely a moment in time, his finger crossed my cheek to fold his open palm around my head, pulling me to his breast.

Still, the rain fell.

I sank into his body, the tears turning into full weeps. He didn’t try to hush me. Didn’t try to make it something other than what is was. There was no easing of pain. No words he could say, that would change the outcome of this day.

I gripped his coat, turning my head to the side. No. No blonde in there. Not this time, anyway.

I pulled back, my mouth opening, begging to call out his name. But if my voice had crossed my lips, it was lost in the sounds of the flooding night.

He took my hand, guiding me into the building. I vaguely recall the cab pulling away. She wasn’t in there. I know. I would have seen. But my mind played tricks, weaving along a spider’s web, from little white lie, to a magnificent trap of deceit.

The fluorescent light from the hallway, initially harsh and offensive, softened in my haze-filled mind. The fog of tears, making it almost ethereal. I sighed, my eyes closing as I listened to their soft hum. Angels singing? No. Angels weeping.

He pulled me from the hall into his dark flat. The heavy rain, snarling at the windows, casting a moving abstract across the shadowed floor.

I don’t remember the hitch of the door, leaving us in the glow of the watered-down streetlights outsides. I don’t recall him tugging on my sleeves, ridding me of my drenched coat. What I do remember is the coolness of his lips against my wet skin, almost reptilian, cold, like some demon, seducing me back into its grasp. I was aware of it all, and yet, my feet did not run.

His lips travelled around my neck, and with each moment, I felt the chill of the room grow colder. A new piece of clothing falling heavily on the floor.

And still, the rain fell.

I never turned to him. I never made a loving gesture or gentle caress. He did, though. He played me like a man picking up a finely tuned instrument, feeling its curves and flesh for the first time. Falling in love with each detail and dying inside as he played it, all the while, never feeling so alive. He knew the strings to play and the notes to pluck. And when he laid me down, my naked body below his, he conducted my body as if I were his magnum opus.

My legs around his thighs, sliding along his sweat like a steel guitar as he pushed inside me. His fingers, frolicking atop my clit, like a pizzicato on a violin, before the long, slow, push, deep inside me, joining his manhood, opening me to the first climax of our opera.

We were mostly silent, our gasps coming out in short breaths, but no words were spoken. It was rough and soft and all the wonderful things in the middle. It was racing to the end, and loitering around the beginning. It was two teenagers, learning each other’s’ bodies for the first time and it was two people, that had loved each other their whole lives and couldn’t bear to let go.

His body, blanketing mine, was still, save the shallow thrust of his hips. We had climaxed several times; the sheets, stained with all we had left to give, felt cool and tainted. No longer sexy and erotic.

I turned my head to the window as he held me tight, his lips imprisoning a taut nipple. I couldn’t go back. Too much had happened. My heart, bruised and tattered like so many before, had ceased to beat. At least, for him, anyway. There was a numbness when his name was spoken, like some distant song you struggle to hear, as the rest of the world falls away. Too many stories were told; too many photos scattered across the floor.

I couldn’t hear him anymore. His voice, no longer the sound of happiness and titillation inside my body. His lips, no longer speaking the words of passion and beauty. His caress, like icicles forming across my skin on a cold December night.

Ever still, the rain fell.

He had fallen asleep inside me, as he had often done before. But the faintest of memories, told me I had once loved that feeling. Held him tighter still. But now, now there was this unyielding, cruel, weight across my breast. He felt wrong. A momentarily sadness floated through my mind that I shouldn’t feel this way, but I pushed him off anyway. When he fell alongside me, I breathed an air that felt fresh and invigorating, like a drowning child, being pulled from the waves.

His eyes jumped, like a frog leaping from stone to stone, as I watched him sleep. What was he dreaming of? After weeks – months - of strain, I finally saw it there. The curve of his lips as his body relaxed in sleep. The rumble of his chest as he softly snored. A man, that only found true peace, when the rest of the world fell away. I etched out his form in my mind, memorizing and cataloguing every ripple of muscle and each vein, strong and proud. Each slope of his knees and freckle upon his flesh. The way the curve of his hips, guided your eyes to his groin, and the sharpness of his collarbone, you wanted to slice you lips on as you tried to bury yourself in his body. And his fingers, with their gentle stroke and whip of pleasure, his thumb drying my tears, before the middle and index fingers joined in a marriage of pleasure, pushing inside my body, calling forth the ecstasy that lay hidden deep within me.

I inhaled his smell, my own sex, twisting and catching in my senses as well. I closed my eyes, sealing each piece in memory, like strands of hair nestled in a locket.

I eased my way from the bed, gathering my clothes from the floor, my eyes never leaving his sleeping face. He was beautiful once. We were. But too many lies and too many schemes, had taken their toll. He wasn’t mine anymore, but I suspected, I would always be his. In his thoughts, late at night, when the world is asleep, and the phone is set to silent as the glow of the computer is extinguished, and all he has left are his thoughts that he fights so hard to rid himself of; he’ll recall me. And I might just come crawling back, like a wounded animal, begging for love and mercy. Or, just maybe, I may hear his haunting voice calling my name on the breeze, calling me for comfort, to lay in his bed and in his arms, and promptly shut the window.

And with the twisting of a handle, a tug on the door and the strongest will I could gather to not look behind, I left the dark, and welcomed the light.

And the rain fell silent; its rapping on the walls, no more.


End file.
